


Trust Issues

by directedbysherlock



Series: Water and Ice [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Hand Jobs, His Last Vow, Light Dom/sub, Lots of erotically charged conversation before some action at the end, M/M, Missing Scene, Mycroft speaks to Lestrade in french, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, moody and broody, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:24:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/directedbysherlock/pseuds/directedbysherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade isn’t sure if he can trust Mycroft to look after Sherlock’s safety… or if he can safely trust his own feelings for Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Issues

**Author's Note:**

> A series of vignettes about their relationship. Each part can be read as a stand-alone, or part of the series.

***

“I swear to God, Mycroft, this time you’ve let things go too far,” Lestrade gritted out as he barged into Mycroft’s office, Anthea at his heels.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Anthea said, perturbed, “but he just wouldn’t stop."

Mycroft slowly stood up from behind the table where he had been nursing a drink, lost in dark and private thoughts. A rare clap of thunder rumbled in the distance from an approaching winter rainstorm.

“It’s fine. Please close the door behind you, Anthea. And lock it, would you?"

The door close with a soft _snick_. Lestrade stood with hands on hips, glaring silently at Mycroft for a few seconds, then advanced across the room until their chests bumped. His face close, Mycroft could feel Lestrade’s breath fanning over his cheek, could smell the smoke from countless cigarettes, could smell the cologne that always lingered enticingly after he left.

“I work for you because I have to,” Lestrade said, his voice low, menacing. “I do it because I know you could destroy me, my career, very easily, if you wanted to. And I don’t doubt for a second that you would.”

Mycroft did not flinch, even though a frisson ran through him as Lestrade slowly began to trace the top of his shirt collar above his expensive tie, fingertips brushing against his neck.

“I fuck you because I can’t stop myself from doing it, God help me,” he continued, now a bitter note to his voice. “I hate myself for it sometimes. Sometimes I think I could kill you, for what you can make me do.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, let his breath out. “So, which is it? Have you come to fuck me, or to kill me? There are days I might welcome either.”

“Neither, today,” Lestrade spit out, then pivoted away on the ball of his foot, running his hand through the short silvery hair at the back of his head.

“What, then?” Mycroft asked, reaching out for his tumbler of scotch on the table, steadying his hand.

“Don’t play coy with me, Mycroft. You know why I’m here. Sherlock told me everything. If you allow this, I’m warning you, you’ll be handing me a perfect reason to be done with you for good. If you put Sherlock on that plane, we both know he’s never coming back.”

Mycroft calmly took a drink. “We don’t know that.”

Lestrade quickly turned back and grabbed the drink from Mycroft’s hand, slamming it down on the heavy wooden table, liquid sloshing over the edges.

“Christ, don’t you care about anybody? He’s your brother! But he's also my _friend_.” Lestrade jabbed an angry finger in his direction. “You, Big Brother, you’re supposed to _protect_ him, not throw him to the wolves.”

Mycroft slowly sat down again, steepling his fingers under his chin, silent.

Lestrade looked back at the drink on the table and picked it up, finishing what was left in one swallow. “Nothing but the best, as usual. At least you always look after yourself.”

Mycroft sighed. “And what is it you would have me do, then?”

“I don’t know, something, anything,” Lestrade yelled in frustration. “Send him away. Just not like this. I have a terrible feeling about this. I know what Sherlock did was bad, real bad. But I don’t want him to die, Mycroft. I thought he died once, and once was too much for me. Maybe you’ve got another trick up your sleeve, but from where I stand, I can’t see what it might be. Someday one of your tricks is going to get him killed.”

Mycroft felt something darken in his heart. A muscle twitched just slightly in his carefully composed face. “Your concern is touching. Perhaps you prefer Sherlock to me. I didn’t know it was like that, between you two.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow, watching Mycroft’s face. “Jealous, Myc? Well, your brother’s quite a looker, I’ll give you that.” But then he let out a short bark of a laugh. “Don’t be absurd. You’d be the first to know if that was true, you watch me like a hawk. I’m sure there’s nowhere your cameras can’t follow me.”

Mycroft crossed one long tweed-clad leg over the other, took a little time to inspect some possible lint on his knee. “I think you overestimate my reach,” he finally said. “There are, believe it or not, some things I just cannot do. Or undo.”

Lestrade snorted. “Bullshit.”

Mycroft frowned. “You don’t trust me.”

Lestrade turned away again and began to pace around the office. He picked up a heavy paperweight in the shape of a greyhound dog from Mycroft’s tidy desk and inspected it closely, but didn’t answer.

“Gregory."

At the firm but velvety sound of his given name, Lestrade’s head snapped up to look at him across the table that separated them.

“Trust is everything. We’ve had this arrangement for what, several years now? It's a little late for doubt now, we’re way beyond that. I’ve had you in every way you ever dreamed of, every way humanly possible. Why, I believe I’ve had you several times right here, in fact," Mycroft purred, trailing his hand over the hard plane of the rich and glossy wood in front of him.

"I never knew you to leave the table hungry," Lestrade snapped, his face flushing.

"True," Mycroft ceded, with a slight tilt of his head in Lestrade's direction. "However, despite your paranoia, I can assure you, you’re just a nobody. Oh, I admit it; I could do what you say. I could destroy your insignificant little career. If I was wont to do that sort of thing, that is…” Then he shrugged. “What you do isn’t of much concern to anyone. Not to anyone important, anyway.”

“I’m not important to you, then?” Lestrade interjected, his darkly shadowed jaw set tensely, his expression conflicted.

Mycroft continued, ignoring the question. “You, on the other hand, you could sink me one hundred times over with what you know about me and, let’s just say, my extracurricular activities. And yet, you have free run of my office, so it seems, as well as my home. It makes me wonder, then, who has more reason to be wary of whom..?"

Lestrade remained silent, but continued to watch him carefully.

“So, you have trust issues?” Mycroft scoffed. “Ridiculous. I’ve had you pleading for mercy, under the heel of my boot or at the tip of a blade, mere millimeters away from drawing blood. I’ve had you beneath me, thrashing and screaming in ecstasy. I’ve had you tied up and begging to let you come, begging for more, always coming back for more. I fill every desire in that black soul of yours like no one else can, no matter how dark or how dangerous, because you ask me to. Because you tell me what you want and then I take you over completely, so you don’t have to face what you really are, how rough you really like it.”

Mycroft spread his hands out before him as if in mock supplication. “In conclusion. I would like to point out that, after all this time, after all the things we’ve done, in the face of my supposedly endless power and manipulation and villainy, here you stand. Completely unharmed, gainfully employed, reputation intact, and I’m assuming, very satisfied. And rock hard, I’d wager, just from the sound of my voice talking to you like this.”

Lestrade held Mycroft’s gaze for a long time, then he slowly set down the paperweight.  “I trust you completely in the bedroom. Just never in the boardroom.”

A soft, ironic laugh slipped from Mycroft’s lips, delighted by his perceptive answer. “Not just a pretty face, then. He’s clever, too.”

Lestrade walked back to where Mycroft sat and stood directly in front of him, his stance wide, hands at his hips again in that commanding way that Mycroft loved.

“Maybe you _do_ have something up your sleeve,” Lestrade said, head tilted to the side and eyes narrowed as his gaze raked over Mycroft’s face, trying to read him. “Maybe you _do_ give a shit about your brother. Maybe, even, you might give a shit about me.”  

He took one of Mycroft’s beautifully manicured hands and pressed it against the front of his trousers. “And you’re right, of course,” he continued, his voice becoming increasingly deep and hoarse. “Rock hard. I guess I’ll fuck you today, after all.”

Mycroft lazily leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded. He slowly opened Lestrade’s zipper, slipped his hand inside and pulled him out to explore at his leisure. He worked him expertly, thoroughly, hands and lips and tongue eliciting moan after exquisite moan. Lestrade swayed unsteadily on his feet above him, completely under his control, until Mycroft took him to the edge, but not quite over. At the end of Lestrade’s hard length, a single crystalline bead gathered, dripped, fell almost in slow motion and sparkled like a prism in freefall under the light of the chandelier before it splashed on the tip of Mycroft’s highly polished mahogany brown shoe.

“Please...” Lestrade begged.

Mycroft abruptly let his firm grip drop away. “ _Not yet_ ,” he hissed, his expression already changing from desire to something more severe, per their arrangement.  He stood up quickly from his chair, knocking it over with a loud crash to match the echoing thunder outside.

“I might let you get a fuck in later, if you deserve it, you insolent cock,” Mycroft barked authoritatively, taking down his own zipper. “After I'm finished, that is, and if I find you’ve pleased me well enough.”

He spun a dazed Lestrade around and shoved him roughly against the dark and sturdy table. Lestrade’s hands flew out to brace himself, knocking into the crystal tumbler. The glass rolled away, whirring and spinning like a top before it slowed and halted. The last small sliver of an ice cube oozed from the cylinder, pooling on the wood as it melted.

“Never doubt me again, Gregory,” Mycroft said, his voice stern. “I always take care of my own.” He leaned into Lestrade’s broad back, arms encircling his waist, then gave Lestrade’s belt a hard jerk as as it slipped through the buckle and loops with a high pitched _zing_.  Mycroft’s lips brushed against the sensitive lobe of Lestrade’s ear, lingering, and when next he spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle. “Before we get carried away... lest we forget the holidays...” The back of one soft and elegant hand lightly caressed a rough and handsome cheek, while the other still held the belt. “Merry Christmas, _mon cher_.”  

For a moment, all was still but for the sound of their ragged breathing, the brief calm at the center of the eye.

And then the storm broke.  
 


End file.
